


Motorcycle Riding

by ErinPtah



Category: Good Omens, Incarnations of Immortality, Sandman
Genre: Crossover, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-07-13
Updated: 2006-07-16
Packaged: 2017-10-12 18:19:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,074
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/127713
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ErinPtah/pseuds/ErinPtah
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The Bentley gets a lot of screentime in fic.  Dick Turpin isn't unheard of.  Phaeton the bike is barely mentioned.  This is an attempt to fix that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Phaeton was dreaming.

In the real world, Phaeton was a bicycle. An improbably shiny one, with a pump, lights, and what it felt were very stylish tartan straps; but a bicycle nonetheless. In its dreams, though, it was a motorcycle.1

In this particular dream Phaeton was cruising down an open highway, blacktop flying past beneath its wheels. Its rider gripped the handlebars inexpertly, but Phaeton ignored his clumsy attempts to steer. It knew where it wanted to go.

The rider gave up trying to control the bike, but he insisted on switching on its headlight as the dusk in the dream-landscape deepened. Phaeton would have preferred to drive in the dark, its black frame all but invisible except for flashes of moonlight on chrome. The rider would rather not be driving at all.

The rider was not used to motorcycles, and the deepening dusk made him nervous. But they sped along, and the wind blew through his hair, and it didn't feel so bad. He started to relax.

Then they turned a corner, and he found himself staring at a sea of taillights.

The rider closed his eyes, hunkered down over the handlebars, and considered praying.

1 _Wanted_ to be, _wanted_ to be; in its _heart_ it was a motorcycle, it was only its construction that's letting it down. (This may explain why Anathema likes Phaeton so much.)

\---

DID YOU ENJOY YOUR RIDE? asked Death, pulling up on a pale motorcycle and parking it next to the sitting figure.

"Not in the least," replied Dream darkly. "I'll never understand what you see in those things. And take off that helmet; it looks ridiculous."

OH, LIKE YOURS DOESN'T, said Death, miffed; but she pulled off her helmet and shook out her long black hair. "Better?"

"Much."

Death grimaced. "You just need some lessons, little brother. I'll let you take Mortis out for a spin." She patted the pale handlebars. "It's very well-behaved."

The engine hummed. Dream shuddered. "Some other time."


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In which Anathema and Newt get a married life that doesn't consist of settling down and having kids right away, and post-Notpocalypse Dick Turpin speaks in haiku and gets paired up with Phaeton. Because I can.

Anathema and Newt Pulsifer led interesting lives. This was largely fueled by the fact that, up until about a year ago, they had both led extremely monotonous and boring lives. After meeting each other, in a whirlwind of events that was no longer quite clear in the memories of either (not that they were complaining), they'd agreed to do Something New every day.

On the honeymoon, Something New had generally involved "exploring attractive sights around the Caribbean" or "exploring attractive sights around the bedroom." Today, Something New had involved karaoke.

Anathema pulled Dick Turpin smoothly into the driveway. Leaning against the side of the house, Phaeton felt a stab of jealousy. Anathema _could_ have ridden her trusty bicycle to the karaoke bar. What was so great about that car?

Aside from the high speed, flawless engineering, and perfect haiku, of course.

Then Newt climbed out of the Wasabi, still laughing about something Anathema had said; and they went up the front steps arm in arm, Newt imitating a particularly bad bit of karaoke to Anathema's amusement. Of course. The car had enough seats for the other new figure in Anathema's life.

Phaeton told itself not to be jealous. It would always hold a special place in Anathema's heart. Wouldn't it?

 _Newt mentioned children,_  
announced Dick Turpin suddenly.  
 _They make this one feel nervous.  
They'd spill on the seats._

The bicycle was a little startled. Children? As in, its rider's and Newt's? It envisioned sticky fingers on the handlebars, scratched paint, stains on its lovely tartan straps . . .

 _This one understands.  
There would be crumbs between seats,  
And stains of grape juice._

Phaeton started to panic. Anathema wouldn't doom it to that . . . would she? It had been healed by an angel once, but it doubted he would come back on a regular basis, no matter what state the bicycle was in.

 _Gently fall the leaves,_ haiku'd Dick Turpin.  
 _The pow'r that first fixed this one  
Is often busy._

To its surprise, Phaeton felt a sudden surge of sympathy for the Wasabi. It had only known Dick Turpin since the Wasabi's rehabilitation, but it had heard disturbing stories.

 _Frog leaps in the pond.  
It shames this one to admit it:  
Engrish was spoken._

Oh.

All grudges Phaeton had ever held against the car were forgotten.

The thought of children still nagged at it, though - until the Wasabi offered a reassuring haiku:

 _The driver worried,  
but Newt did not mean right now.  
He said, "Just, one day."_

The bicycle relaxed. It was easier to stomach the prospect of children if they weren't in the _near_ future.

Besides, it realized, it would get old and wear out on its own one day, kids or no kids.

 _This one imagines  
That tires on rough terrain might  
One day grow weary._

Dick Turpin had a point there.

In fact, Phaeton mused, at some point it might be nice . . . not _now_ , of course, not when they were young and gleaming and the world was stretching out in front of them, but one day . . . it might not be so bad to help raise some little ones.

 _Cherry blossoms bloom.  
Considering the future  
This one is agreed._

\---

The wind rustled in the branches.

"Did you hear something outside?" asked Newt, glancing at the window.

"No. Why?"

"I thought I might have left the radio on in Dick Turpin."

"We were singing all the way home, remember?"

"Oh yeah."

Anathema started humming - one of the tunes that Newt had particularly botched (before the speakers shorted out and the microphone went dead), and he tackled her with a mock growl, and their plans for One Day, or even Tomorrow, were overwhelmed with an amazingly absorbing Now.

\---

Death pulled into the driveway in Phaeton's dream, her brother riding uncomfortably behind her on the pale cycle. Both were helmeted; Dream's helmet did indeed look ridiculous.

WHERE'S THE DREAMER? asked Death, looking around.

"That's it," said a puzzled Dream, pointing to the tartan-accented bicycle leaning against the house.

Death pulled off her helmet to stare incredulously at her brother. " _That's_ been giving you so much trouble? Honestly, Morpheus--"

"It was a motorcycle last time," protested Dream. "It's always dreamed itself as a motorcycle. Something's changed."

Death sighed. "Fine. You're off the hook - for now. I'll get you back on a good bike yet, though."

She put her helmet back on. NOW HANG ON TIGHT.

And they turned and sped away across the dream-lawn, carefully avoiding the little black-and-tartan tricycles.


End file.
